


no one's got me quite like you

by uneventfulhouses



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: Annie and Adam show up, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Shyan Secret Santa 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21955264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uneventfulhouses/pseuds/uneventfulhouses
Summary: Andrew nudges Ryan's shoulder. “I have a question: are you and Shane busy tonight?”Aside from general editing, Ryan doesn’t recall having any plans for the rest of the day. He can’t necessarily speak for Shane, but chances are he doesn’t either, unless Netflix and Chill with his cat counts.It doesn’t.“No?” he says, cautiously, because for the most part, when BuzzFeed employees ask him these things, it’s usually for something that he doesn’t necessarily want to do. But for the sake of views, Ryan tends to sacrifice himself.“Cool. We’re doing a video.” Andrew turns to walk away, like that’s the end of the conversation, but Ryan calls after him.“About what?”or; today on worth it, shane and ryan evolve into a couple during three double dates at three drastically different prices.
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 49
Kudos: 488
Collections: Shyan Secret Santa 2019





	no one's got me quite like you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inartful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inartful/gifts).



> hi friends! this was written for [ej](https://inartfulhypothesis.tumblr.com/), for the shyan secret santa 2019 event. i already can't wait until next year's! i hope you enjoy it, and i'm wishing you a wonderful holiday season <3

It’s the middle of a Tuesday afternoon at the office; Ryan’s sitting too close to his screen, combing through footage in few-second segments, straining his ears to hear something through his headphones. He’s been at it for hours, in his own little world that’s just him, lukewarm coffee, and the sound of nothing. _Yet_. 

Someone tugs his headphones off which startles him badly enough that he yelps. 

When Ryan looks up, clutching his chest as he dissolves into laughter, he finds Andrew grinning down at him. 

“You couldn’t have done that in a way that didn’t scare the literal shit out of me?” Ryan says, catching his breath easily; it’s not really Ryan’s fault—when he’s going over footage, he tends to be jumpy, too engrossed in the silent moments to pay attention to much else, desperately hoping to catch a sound but—

Andrew nudges his shoulder. “Probably, but I have a question: are you and Shane busy tonight?”

Aside from general editing, Ryan doesn’t recall having any plans for the rest of the day. He can’t necessarily speak for Shane, but chances are he doesn’t either, unless Netflix and Chill with his cat counts.

It doesn’t. 

“No?” he says, cautiously, because for the most part, when BuzzFeed employees ask him these things, it’s usually for something that he doesn’t necessarily _want_ to do. But for the sake of views, Ryan tends to sacrifice himself. 

“Cool. We’re doing a video.” Andrew turns to walk away, like that’s the end of the conversation, but Ryan calls after him. 

“About what?” He’s not just going to march into something _just because_ , but he’s immensely curious. 

“I’ll explain later,” Andrew says. “Just make sure you bring Shane. Meet us outside the building around seven-ish. We’ll ride together.” Andrew walks away, seemingly taking Ryan’s silence as consent—never okay, B-T-Dubs. 

Ryan’s left with his attention wrapped up in everything else but the footage he’s staring at.

Glancing down at his screen, the time reads just after four, which gives him time to scrape together a very small part of the video. He was planning on doing an all-nighter; it was going to be a good one. He has enough sense to text Shane the details, as vague as they are, which Shane is immediately down for, without any question at all. It’s both frustrating and admirable how chill Shane is about certain situations, how he allows himself to get roped into oddities without much information. 

One day, he’s going to get himself murdered and Ryan’s going to have to cover his case on some future season of True Crime. 

Ryan laughs at himself. 

:::

It’s seven-ish when Ryan parks in the employee lot of the building. He can see Shane already outside, standing with Andrew and Steven, who look amused as Ryan walks up to them. 

“So, what’s the video about? Is there a script?” Ryan begins, but Steven chuckles. 

“No script, man,” he says. “We’re just doing a double date thing for _Worth It._ Hope you like bars.” 

Ryan grins.

:::

What they hadn’t made clear is that this was a _wine_ bar. Ryan doesn’t give a shit about wine—not really, but he’s keenly aware that’s he’s buzzed, at the very least, leaning heavily towards drunk. He never means for it to happen, but alcohol and her siren call; it reminds him of college, the obstacle courses with the bags of wine, slapping the bags, puking it up in the morning and doing it again that night—his body hates him, he’s sure. 

They’re walking, he realizes, and he stumbles. Someone’s arm is slung low against his back and he catches himself against a broad chest and, of _course_ , it’s Shane, who doesn’t look at all affected by the drinking they’ve done. And maybe, admittedly, Ryan’s just had a little bit too much—no one’s stopped him, so it must be okay, but Shane looks down at him with his inquisitive eyes, like he’s never seen Ryan before. 

“I’m okay,” Ryan says, tongue dry in his mouth; that’s the problem with wine. It’s too chalky, makes him thirsty, so he just _keeps_ drinking.

Ryan finds, though, that Shane’s shirt is soft underneath his palms; it’s the flannel he’s always dressed in, well worn and fitted, tucked into his jeans—and there’s a thought that maybe he’s too close, but Shane’s just looking at him, not pulling away. Not that he ever does, because, when he thinks about it—which isn’t often because he sinks too far into his feelings when that happens—Shane is always there. With large, gentle hands, his barely there lisp, his stupid honey eyes looking at Ryan like he’s just there to help. 

“You okay? You should probably slow down,” Shane says, grinning. His lips are tinged purple, just this side of bruised. “We’re supposed to be on a date.” 

Technically, yes, they’re on a date, but it isn’t real, which is _why_ Ryan is this drunk in the first place.

It’s not that Ryan is hopelessly in love with his best friend, it’s just that he’s hopelessly in love with his best friend. Ryan leans his forehead against Shane’s chest. 

“This is a stupid video,” Ryan mumbles, closing his eyes, tilting into Shane far too much for sober-Ryan to allow the footage to actually air. In the morning, he might not remember this, not one hundred percent, but he knows, can feel it, that he’s too close to Shane for the footage to be usable. 

Because of the comments. Because of the chemistry. Because of Ryan’s supposed heart eyes, even though he tries so hard not to have any. And it’s not like Shane fares any better; he has the stupid heart eyes, too, the comments say. But it’s just stuff he reads, not actually real, not actually aimed at him in the way he sort of kind of wishes. It’s just—they’re _friends_. 

Suddenly, Ryan’s overcome with the memory of when they met. He remembers being an intern, just like Shane, and not immediately clicking, but being friendly. He remembers how much younger Shane looked, how he’d asked Shane to invest his time with this show Ryan was trying so hard to develop and he remembers Shane jokingly stating he needed to check his calendar. He remembers _that_ , he remembers all of it, but it’s _grown_ since then. It’s become so much more, because they figured each other out, Ryan thinks. Because as closed off as Shane can be, Ryan doesn’t think there’s a person on the face of the earth he knows better inside out. 

Laughing against Shane’s chest, Ryan can feel Shane’s hand underneath his chin, lifting his face up. And when he looks at Shane, it’s not that flattering of an angle for him to see, but Shane’s never cared, and Ryan couldn’t give a shit, because—well, it’s Shane. And he likes Shane and his stupid humor, and stupid moustache, and his stupid height jokes that make Ryan feel a little small, but in that way where even though Ryan could definitely kick someone’s ass, he feels protected? It’s weird and a lot to unpack, so Ryan just keeps it zipped in a suitcase, because he’s not supposed to have these feelings, anyway. 

“Hey,” Shane murmurs, voice low, “do you want to go? You’re, like, fucked up right now.” Shane’s eyes are amused, but Ryan can tell he’s trying to take care of him, like he always does, because that’s Shane in a nutshell. 

“No,” Ryan replies, but this is going to render what they’ve filmed in the bar useless. There’s a rule; unless it’s a video of drunk people, usually once people are drunk, the footage is cut. Well, it’s Ryan’s rule, because he’s used to looking like an idiot, but not a drunk idiot. Mostly.

“Okay, then you gotta stand up on your own,” Shane says, his eyes full of mirth. They look pretty tonight, like Tennessee whiskey, and he’s got a beard these days, full and scruffy, hair longer than he usually keeps it, and Ryan’s a little (read: a lot) into it, even though he’s not supposed to be because, you know. Friends. 

“Just like,” Ryan starts, trying to stand on his own. “Hold me or whatever.” 

“Ryan,” Shane admonishes. “ _What_?”

“I don’t know.” Ryan does know, he just can’t tell Shane. Because it’s a secret. “I don’t want to stop doing the video, though. What kind of date would I be?”

Shane’s smile is brilliant, and Ryan is just—he just wishes he didn’t feel like this. Dizzy, overtaken, enamored; it’s a lot, but Ryan is expert-level at shoving it down. He had to be, not only for himself but for the show, because they needed to preserve that, their friendship, so the show would continue. And yet, right now, Ryan was just having a hard go of it, with Shane’s woodsy cologne making him lightheaded, Andrew and Steven admonishing him for being the way he is, and Shane just caring for him, like he always does.

It’s not a good night, and Ryan wishes he’d forget it and he’ll pretend he did if he doesn’t, but he’ll think about it, the way Shane’s eyes glimmered in the fluorescent lights of the bar, the way he smiled, like it was just for him, the way his arm held strong around his waist, holding him up when he himself couldn’t. 

Steven seems a little upset with him, and Ryan wishes he cared, but he doesn’t, sipping another glass of wine, his hand on Shane’s shoulder, Andrew’s eyes on him like lasers. Not a good night, no, but when he looks back at Shane, up to those amber eyes the color of brown sugar (and just as sweet), lit clear by bar lights, Ryan doesn’t really give a shit. 

:::

The hangover the next morning is the absolute fucking worst. _This_ is why he doesn’t drink wine. He doesn’t understand how those Wine and Crime girls do it all the time. It’s just—not a good time. 

It takes him entirely too long to get out of bed and shower, and he sits on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands until the world tilts back to level again. He gets dressed in sweats and a hoodie, grabbing his phone and his laptop, sunglasses over his eyes despite it being cloudy out.

By the time he drags himself to work, Shane is already at their station, chatting with Andrew. They eye him, and he ignores them, dropping to his chair, only to push his keyboard out of the way and lay his head down, shoving his sunglasses onto the top of his head. 

“Serves you right,” Andrew says, frowning when Ryan peeks up to look at him. “The footage was a mess. Five minutes at most, and that’s just us talking outside the bar. We could use it, but you’re basically hanging all over Shane, making the world’s worst jokes—Guinness is going to call and ask you if they can put you in their next book of world records.” Andrew isn’t ever like this, not with Ryan. They get along so well, but Ryan knows what he’s done, knows he’s in the wrong, and yet, rather than to own up to it, he pretends like he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“I don’t remember any of it,” he lies, right through his teeth. He could, though, wax poetic about Shane’s cologne, the plum hue of his wine-stained lips, his amber eyes so soft, how he held Ryan up despite the mess he’d become.

“That’s fine. I’m gonna force you to watch what we filmed,” Andrew says, shaking his head. “Can you just—we don’t have anyone else, and I know you guys aren’t dating, but can you like, get it together just a little bit and do the thing where you’re a little bit like boyfriends? Just for the ep? Think of the views,” Andrew says, and Ryan can’t help but chuckle into the embrace of his own arm, looking at Andrew above his elbow. “We’re just trying to get through this double date. It’s just three nights,” Andrew pleads. 

Against all judgement, he looks at Shane, who’s been eerily quiet. Usually there’s input from him, something to push Ryan into saying something, and yet, he just looks at Ryan with questioning eyes, eyes that make Ryan want to hide, because he most certainly remembers rubbing his face into Shane’s shirt last night, searching for a scent he had memorized by now. But Shane is looking at him, with eyes he doesn’t know, lips pursed, too inside his mind. And Ryan could ask Shane to spill his thoughts, but Shane would just fall further within himself, an enigma Ryan had no hope of cracking. 

Maybe if he was—smarter? Prettier? Funnier? It’s all harsh thoughts, really, thoughts he’s wrestled with because he knows he’s attracted to Shane, in that dumb way that just happens by accident. 

But this is wildly different than finding out he’s attracted to a girl during Netflix and chill in his college dorm wearing track pants and a snapback, still half-drunk from the night before. There are stigmas, some he doesn’t want to face, not really, but Shane’s eyes are warm now, like they’ve softened within the few seconds they watched each other, and Ryan feels silly for worrying at all. 

Granted, he’s not going to say anything about the way he feels, because the last thing he wants to do is ruin the friendship he has with Shane, but still, he knows he has some making up to do. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Ryan says eventually, and Andrew grins, taking it as a win and walking away, but Shane is another story entirely. 

“Are you okay?” Shane asks him, eyes like maple syrup, so sweet it makes Ryan’s stomach flip. He’s too hungover for this, but he doesn’t look away, mostly because he doesn’t want to, and also because—well, he doesn’t have to either. 

“Mhm,” Ryan says. “I—I didn’t have anything to eat yesterday, and I know that sometimes I go too far when I drink, but I’m going to make it up to you. And Andrew and Steven,” he adds belatedly. Shane quirks an eyebrow. “I’m gonna be such a good boyfriend. Watch out, Madej.” 

Shane chuckles, and Ryan, because Shane will cover for him at any sign of trouble, promptly takes a nap at his desk.

(The best thing about working at BuzzFeed is that you can always blame it on a video, even if there aren’t any cameras around.)

:::

It’s a few hours before Ryan is nudged awake. Groggy and gross feeling, he opens his eyes. He’d fallen asleep facing Shane, and Shane’s face is so close Ryan’s heart trips over itself in his chest. 

“Hey, you feeling better?” Shane’s voice is quiet, almost whisper-like. His hand is gentle on Ryan’s back, and Ryan wants to sink into the warmth the touch offers. Instead, he nods, because he does in fact feel notably better, headache dulled, slowly blinking sleep out of his eyes. Shane is hazy before him, but—Ryan feels pleasant inside himself, allowing his eyes to focus on Shane’s features until he’s a clear picture, watching Ryan with a smile he’s so familiar with. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan assures. “God, I really—messed up.” Sighing, he sits up, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands, looking up at the lights on the ceiling. 

“Nah—”

Ryan looks at Shane, deadpan. 

“Okay, yeah, you fucked up a little, but we’re all human. We’re allowed rough drafts of videos. It’s a good thing Andrew and Steven were prepared. We, my good sir, have itineraries and strict instructions.”

Ryan makes a nondescript sound, his attention stolen by the noise his laptop makes. It’s an email from Andrew. The itinerary in question. Ryan looks it over, kinda sorta loving it. 

The email reads:

 _Okay, since_ some _people (who shall remain nameless) aren’t very good at holding their liquor, we’re restarting from scratch. Get ready kids, this is what you’re looking forward to:_

_1st date: A bowling alley with a bar and good food. $_

_2nd date: A nice restaurant in K-town with a romantic vibe and a good wine menu. $$_

_3rd date: A fancy-ass high-end steakhouse with the wine included in the meal price. $$$_

_Best behavior, please, JFC._

There’s a dress code listed; he notes the third date requires a suit and tie.

Looks easy enough, and Ryan loves bowling. Shane on the other hand doesn’t look very happy about it. 

“Gutter balls, baby,” Shane says next him, and Ryan laughs, feeling light. 

“I’ll teach you, and you’ll be as good as me,” Ryan promises.

They share a look, just for a moment, before someone’s calling Shane’s attention and Ryan’s looking back at his monitor; heat flushing over his face. He ignores the feeling, knowing this is going to blur his feelings to the ends of the earth. Fake dating. He knows how it ends in the movies, but this is real life, and as far as he knows, Shane’s never expressed any interest. But then again, Ryan feels like this, and hasn’t said anything to Shane…so, uh, maybe?

But Ryan knows better than to keep his hopes up that high, so he plucks them down, and puts them back inside his chest, and tries to focus on work. He’s not quite sure what he’s doing, but it doesn’t really matter ‘cause Shane is touching his arm and suggesting they get lunch, so they leave. And if Ryan feels a little warm when Shane stands a little closer than he’s used to as they ride the elevator down, then that’s his business. 

:::

As Ryan is getting dressed for his date, he thinks about the day’s events, tries to not read so much into the little touches Shane has lent him. And there were so many. But it was more so how they planned tonight. It was part of the video, sure, but he remembers the tone of Shane’s voice saying _you should pick me up. We’ll meet them there at the bowling alley_.

And Ryan instantly agreed, because it sounded nice. It was a date, right? But they didn’t have to necessarily treat it like one. But they were, and Ryan didn’t know what that meant. Were they just playing into it, pretending just for the sake of content? 

Ryan pulled on a t-shirt, something comfortable to pair with his jeans and Jordans. It was a bowling alley on a Wednesday night, so his usual date night outfits felt too dressy. He would save that for tomorrow. He had special plans for Friday. High-end, high-class? Sure, he was a frat boy at heart, would rather wear sneakers and tees than a suit and tie, but he knows he looks good in them and with the way he’s feeling these days, it doesn’t hurt to dress to impress. 

:::

“Night one!” Andrew begins. “We’re outside a local bowling alley, where we’ll be having our first date night. We have a couple of special guests; the Unsolved Boys.”

“Hi, thanks for having us,” Shane says neatly, smiling into the camera. 

“Yeah, thanks for letting us be a part of this,” Ryan says, sincerely, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. 

“So, we’ll grab some food, throw back some beers, and since this is a double date of sorts, we’ll have a nice, _friendly_ game of bowling.” There’s a familiar glimmer of competition in Steven’s eyes, one Ryan’s familiar with on the basketball court.

“Got this in the bag,” Ryan says, grinning. He looks up to Shane, who’s looking down at him with a smile of his own. 

(Ryan takes a moment to admire the fact that Shane’s wearing his denim jacket over a graphic tee, sweet pink chinos and dirty white converse high tops, clear frames over his pretty eyes. Ryan likes it a lot.)

Inside, they film for a while, talking with the manager and the line cook. They eventually order the most popular dish—thick beef burgers, wedge fries, and a locally brewed beer, all of which was so incredibly _good_ even though it was relatively traditional. After, they all go to the counter for shoes, and start playing their game. 

Which— _fuck_ —Shane is actually _horrible_ at. Ryan at least thought he would have been decent, but it really was gutter balls for the first few turns. 

At this point, even with Ryan carrying the game, there was no way they were going to win against Steven and Andrew, who must do this some semblance of often, because while they might not be hitting consecutive strikes, they’re very good at playing. 

“Come here,” Ryan says as Shane grabs his ball. Ryan is aware the cameras are on them, actively filming, but he can’t just let Shane suck this badly. Either way, Shane sidles up to him, holding his bowling ball, cradling it with both hands. 

“I _told_ you,” Shane says, a knowing smile curling his lips. Ryan forces himself not to be ridiculously dazzled by the sight of it and moves behind Shane.

“Stand here,” Ryan directs, setting his hands on Shane’s shoulders to maneuver him to the middle of their lane. “Fingers in the holes,” he continues. 

“That’s what she said,” Shane snickers, and Ryan rolls his eyes behind Shane, but he’s not above laughing at the stupid joke. 

“Shut up, Shane.” Ryan’s still grinning as he slides his hand over the back of Shane’s arm, grasping loosely around his wrist. “You want to curve your body so when you throw the ball, it lands in the direction you want it to. And you want to throw it hard, so the force knocks all the pins down.”

There’s a suspended moment, just for a handful of seconds, where silence flickers like a candle flame between them. 

“I can’t with you behind me,” Shane says finally, his voice low, which sparks something in the pit Ryan’s belly. And they’ve stood this close before, but it’s never been _anything_ like this, with the heat on low.

“You can,” Ryan eases, setting his other hand on Shane’s hip, pressing gently, encouraging. He tugs on Shane’s wrist, and Shane pulls back, and launches the ball down the lane, and it’s not one hundred percent, but it knocks the right half of the pins and Shane celebrates, a full-bodied cheer that almost knocks Ryan off his feet, but Ryan’s laughing, hand still on Shane’s hip, his other hand curling around Shane’s elbow. Shane turns to look at him over his shoulder, sparkling eyes and a wide smile, a pretty flush sitting on his cheeks, and Ryan is just—he’s so gone for this moment. 

It’s never been like this, shifting eyes and tinged cheeks, smiles and banter and—and Ryan just lets himself fall into it, doesn’t let himself second guess or blame it on the fact that there are cameras and they’re supposed to be making a video. Andrew and Steven don’t seem bothered this time around, so Ryan just lets himself enjoy the moment, feeling close to Shane. He wants to bottle this fragment of time that smells like stale beer and French fries and that ever-so-familiar scent of Shane’s cologne. 

“Go get your ball,” Ryan says, moving to sit, and Shane does as he’s told, but before Ryan reaches his seat, Shane calls him back over. 

“Stand with me again,” Shane says, looking a little helpless and so Ryan goes, close behind Shane’s body, hand settled on his waist, fingers circling Shane’s wrist, and Shane twists his body as he throws the bowling ball again, knocking all pins but two. 

Shane laughs, and when he spins to look at Ryan, he doesn’t really let Shane go, just settles his hand on the small of Shane’s back. And Shane, he’s standing incredibly close, not much space between them. It doesn’t seem to matter; he just sets his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and says, “Looks like you’re my good luck charm, Bergara.” 

Ryan feels his face grow a little hot, but he smiles up at Shane, shrugging his shoulders. “I do what I can,” he says. 

They must stand there, just looking at each other for much too long because Steven comes up to them and tells them to move out of the way so he can go. And—they have to _untangle_ , and it’s overwhelming. Ryan doesn’t really know what to do with himself.

“I’m gonna get some chips,” Ryan announces, rather abruptly, heading towards the restrooms where the vending machines are. He doesn’t expect for Shane to follow him, but of course he does.

:::

Ryan is the tiniest bit buzzed, just within the hazy grasp of alcohol, but not so much he’s unaware of what’s going on around him. Shane is leaning against the edge of the vending machine and the glow of the light dances on Shane’s cheeks, against his brow, casting shadows on his collar, just visible above the neckline of his grey tee. Shane is watching him punch in numbers for a bag of chips, and Ryan pretends that his heart doesn’t jolt against his chest, like his hands don’t want to reach out and grab Shane by his denim jacket and let him crowd into his space. Ryan complains about the short jokes from time to time, but there are moments, tears in the ripped fabric of his sanity that give way; he likes feeling small sometimes, likes that Shane’s so much taller than him, his shoulders broad, arms long enough that they can rest on Ryan’s hips. He _likes_ that Shane is _bigger_ than him. 

Ryan grabs his chips when they drop and he leans back against the pane of the vending machine, looking over at Shane. Ryan chews on his bottom lip. 

“Are you having fun?” Something inside him allows himself to touch the very last button on Shane’s denim jacket, unintentionally (or maybe completely intentionally) pulling Shane into him. They’re a _lot_ closer now, thighs touching, and Shane is looking at him with eyes like whiskey, like dark honey, like treacherous uncertainty, and Ryan just soaks it up, lets himself feel the enthralling, cool chill slithering down his spine. 

“Yeah, yeah. I—you’re better at bowling than you really need to be,” Shane says, quirking up just one side of his mouth, eyes glittering. Ryan might die underneath that playful gaze—he’s lived a good life. If this is how it happens, with Shane standing close, with Shane looking at him like this, then he’s good. So good.

“Eh—everyone played in college and for a while we continued after, every Friday before hitting the bars,” Ryan says, chuckling to himself. “It’s not that I’m good, it’s just you’re—all limbs. Hard to be coordinated when you’re built like a squid.” 

Ryan keeps his eyes on Shane, watching his face scrunch up with laughter. He’s so close he feels Shane’s breath on his face, warm, smelling like whatever hipster beer Shane had been drinking, like French fries and burgers. 

There’s a desire to live in this moment, where they’re this close, where Ryan’s reclined against the glass of the vending machine with his hips pushed out and Shane has a finger hooked into his belt loop, and this feels a little too much like flirting, like _actual_ flirting. They’ve always teased each other, but it’s never been like this—like maybe they’re going places Ryan hadn’t imagined. It feels a little more real than just being filmed on camera. He doesn’t panic, just enjoys it. 

“It’s probably a lot easier for you, since you’re so close to the ground,” Shane retorts, his voice so light it makes Ryan’s stomach flutter. 

“It’s _raw_ skill,” Ryan insists, biting down on his lip. He feels like—he feels like if he tugs on Shane’s collar, their mouths could meet. 

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Sports Guy,” Shane says, and there’s a gleam in his eyes, like maybe, just maybe, he’s thinking the same thing. 

And Ryan holds his breath, just for a moment, and the distance between them is diminishing, and his heart is slamming against his sternum. Ryan tilts his head back, just a little, his fingers gripping the corner of Shane’s jacket; he can feel Shane’s hand move against his hip and stay, and they’re _so_ close.

Inhaling, there’s shakiness there, like his lungs don’t quite remember their basic function. “ _Shane_.” And God, Ryan never whispered Shane’s name like that, like he wants _everything_ Shane will offer him. With heavy eyes, Shane doesn’t answer him, but he leans in, eyelashes fluttering as his eyes fall closed and Ryan can feel Shane’s breath warm on his lips and—

“Hey! Are you guys gonna play, or what? We’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Steven stands at the end of the hall, and Shane and Ryan separate, almost comically quick. Ryan doesn’t think they’re far enough away from each other, but Steven doesn’t seem to pick up on the sparks flying everywhere. 

:::

“That was good!” Steven says, as they pack up their things. Ryan hasn’t looked at Shane, not really, and he’s not exactly looking forward to sitting in a car with him when he feels like he could reach out and touch the air between them. 

“It was, it was fun,” Ryan says, smiling. There’s a hand low on his back; he turns and sees Shane. His eyes are bright, like they hold a secret, and perhaps they do; it makes Ryan wonder what he himself looks like, if Shane can tell he’s holding secrets of his own.

“Good on you for not getting blasted off bowling alley beer,” Andrew teases him from across the table. 

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Wine—it’s a whole ‘nother thing,” he explains. Shane’s laughing beside him, and the tension in Ryan’s shoulder eases, but not by much; there’s warmth underneath Shane’s palm, and he can feel each of his fingertips, even over the cotton of his t-shirt. “It’s like college.” 

“Well, this one turned out really good,” Andrew says. “Thanks for doing this, guys.”

“You’re welcome,” both Ryan and Shane say simultaneously. They turn to look at each other; the delight on Shane’s face must match Ryan’s because Steven is snickering from behind them. Ryan and Shane dissolve into laughter. 

“They really are like a married couple,” Ryan hears Steven say. Andrew quirks a brow at Ryan but doesn’t say anything. And neither does Ryan, or Shane, or Steven. It’s all just—quiet between them, with the hustle and bustle of the bowling alley around them.

:::

The drive home is quiet, and Ryan suspects that Shane’s fallen behind his carefully curated walls, but Ryan doesn’t necessarily reach out to him, doesn’t say anything to change that. And God, all he wants to do is _talk_ about that moment, where everything had just disappeared and it was just the two of them, close enough he could count every single one of Shane’s eyelashes.

The quiet, though, as stifling as it is, feels better than the alternative—uncertain conversation about things they aren’t supposed to be feeling. 

Ryan arrives to Shane’s building and when he idles so Shane can leave, Shane seems to hesitate for just a moment. 

“That was really fun,” Shane says, voice quiet, introspective. The car is dark, but Ryan knows the look in Shane’s eyes like the back of his hand. “I had fun with you tonight.” 

Ryan isn’t brave enough to bring it up, how he’s still reeling from Shane crowding into his space, from Shane almost kissing him. He doesn’t bring up the fact that his fingers are still tingling and every time he looks at Shane, his heart tries to leap out of his chest. He doesn’t bring up the fact that they’re playing an incredibly dangerous game with absolutely no rules.

But then Shane is gone, without much else, and that’s okay. Ryan’s eyes watch as Shane walks into the building without so much as looking back and Ryan drives away, dazed, wondering how the _fuck_ he’s going to fall asleep. 

(He doesn’t, lying awake all night, staring at the ceiling, knowing there has to be something _there_.

And he’ll open their chat thread dozens of times, typing out messages just to get the flow going, but he’ll delete every single word he wants to send because saying it out loud makes things real, and he can’t take certain sentiments back, or laugh them off.

He wishes, though. That if he just said his piece and things went wrong, he could just control-Z the moment and move on.

More than that, he wishes he was just brave enough to say it, to tell Shane exactly the way he feels, with certain words, just show his hand and leave his cards on the table. But he isn’t, and that, truthfully, is what bothers Ryan the most.)

:::

Work is work (is work). He combs through footage, writes his script, chilling (mostly) even as Shane sitting at his side, working on his own assignments. And it’s not weird. Nothing is ever weird, and it’s calming, as much as it is frustrating. 

:::

Curly bumps into him in the men’s room while he’s washing his hands. And Curly looks at him, like really studies him in the mirror when their eyes meet. 

“ _What_?” Ryan says, a little exasperated.

“Are you dating someone?” Curly asks, his voice even, inquisitive, but Ryan knows he’s fishing, and that makes him self-conscious, like he’s done something to warrant the scrutiny. Because he’s been careful, he’s tried to be, at least.

“No?” Ryan says. “Painfully single.” 

Curly hums. “Well. You look like you do, you know, when you get a new girlfriend,” he says, and Ryan flushes, because he’s not dating anyone, but last night with Shane was—a lot more than it usually is. Ryan replays Shane hesitating getting out of his car, saying sweet things like, _I had fun with you tonight_ , in that tone he uses when they’re talking about serious things at three in the morning on Shane’s couch over beers, dizzyingly drunk, but not enough that they let the conversation go. Those handful of nights have ended up with Ryan waking up on Shane’s couch, with his legs stretched out over Shane’s lap, Shane’s hand wrapped around his ankle. Ryan can’t stop thinking about it. 

“Well, I don’t have a girlfriend,” Ryan says, tone flat.

“Okay, okay,” Curly relents, raising his hands. “You look happy is all I’m getting at, damn.” 

Ryan can’t help but quirk a smile, leaving Curly in the bathroom to go back to his desk, sitting next to Shane like he usually does.

There’s a fresh cup of coffee next to his mouse and Shane is wearing his earphones, looking particularly engrossed by whatever he’s working on, so Ryan doesn’t bug him, just smiles to himself as he sips from the cup.

The coffee, admittedly, has nothing to do with how warm he feels. 

:::

Later that afternoon, it’s someone’s birthday, and there’s cake to be had. Without asking, or even being asked really, Ryan grabs an extra slice and sets it in front of Shane’s keyboard since he’s in a meeting. He finishes his own, tucking his empty plate off to the side of his desk, too lazy to get up and toss it.

He’s wholly engrossed in work, but he notices when Shane gets back.

Shane gasps, which catches his full attention, though he doesn’t turn away from looking at his screen. “Thanks, babe.”

Ryan freezes. And like nothing had happened, Shane sits down in his seat and starts to eat, cutting into the cake with the side of his fork, and Ryan just watches, dazed, a little like he’s a turtle that’s been knocked on its back. And then he turns to his monitor, the screen a blur of text he’d been revising, movements of clips he’d been filtering through.

Like, Shane jokingly calls him baby when they’re filming, or when he says something outlandish, or when he’s being a general little shit. But not like this, when Ryan’s done something sweet, and Shane’s just grateful, not enough to just outright call Ryan _babe_. 

But Ryan likes it, is the thing. He likes the way it sounds from Shane’s mouth, the way it slipped out so effortlessly, the way it could just be commonplace for Shane to call him _babe_. 

Ryan just reaches out to touch Shane’s shoulder, because he wants to acknowledge the comment. Shane looks up at him, smiling. 

“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Shane jokes, laughing at himself, licking remnants of pink frosting from his lips. 

Ryan smiles, but he’s still stuck, like he doesn’t know how to move forward. He wants to say, _hey, call me babe again_. He wants to say, _hey, remember last night when we almost kissed?_ He wants to say, _hey, is there something here, do you feel like I do?_

“I mean, I am going through footage,” Ryan answers, grinning. 

Shane barks a laugh. “I think you need to get your prescription checked.” He taps his index finger against Ryan’s glasses, looking all too self-satisfied. Shane turns back to his monitor and continues to eat the cake, and Ryan just. 

Just turns back to his monitor, because _hey, I think I’m in love with you_ is on the tip of his tongue, and he’s afraid as soon as he opens his mouth, unwarranted confessions will pour out. 

:::

“Onto number two!” Steven says. 

“Woo!” Shane cheers. 

They’ve begun filming, walking up the sidewalk towards the restaurant. Night has fallen, the city lights shining bright around them. In front of them, Adam is holding the camera, walking backwards, and Annie walks behind him, making sure he doesn’t run into anything. 

Steven and Andrew are walking just to Ryan’s left; Shane, like always, is to Ryan’s right. 

“We’re in beautiful K-Town,” Ryan says, looking to the camera. “I don’t get out here enough.” 

“It’s really beautiful. Also has some of the best food,” Andrew leads. “We’re gonna be dining at a neat little place, a hidden gem, right here in LA.” 

“The middle—better than bowling?” Shane asks. 

“We’re gonna find out,” Steven says with a grin. 

They cut, and chat, filming more about the place—Andrew and Steven lead the video, Ryan and Shane chiming in every so often. It’s easy between the four of them. 

They sit at the table, with light fixtures that seem to drip from the ceiling. The chef comes and speaks with them, Andrew and Steven asking questions about inspiration and motivation. Ryan, though, is inside himself. He doesn’t really offer anything to the conversation; not that he needs to with Andrew and Steven doing their thing. 

The day has been—A Lot. There’s been a lot to process and Ryan hasn’t had the time to. With the videos being filmed in quick succession, all Ryan had time to do after work was eat, shower, and get dressed, racing out the door to go pick up Shane.

And Shane looks good tonight. Not much different than what he usually wears; Shane lives in button ups and chinos, but he’s wearing a deep burgundy shirt, open slightly at the collar. Ryan wants to touch his fingers there, at the hollow of his throat, resting in that dip between his collarbones. There’s a slim lock of hair that falls over Shane’s forehead, and Ryan wonders if it’s on purpose. Shane’s not one to do things like that deliberately, but Ryan wonders if Shane knows, somehow, that it drives him crazy.

There’s a moment, where Ryan comes back to himself and realizes that everyone at the table is looking at him. 

“Huh?”

Steven gives him a weird look, and Andrew takes a sip of his wine, and Shane—well—Shane is all brown eyes and pink lips, and Ryan still doesn’t know what’s going on. 

“Nothing—we’ll just cut,” Steven says. 

Ryan feels like he’s doing it again; the thing at the wine bar. Where he messes up and people are disappointed in him. Anxiety sits like acid in his stomach, and when he drinks his water, it does nothing to wash the feeling away. Ryan toys with the edge of his sleeve, unbuttoning just to rebutton, and then decides to roll the sleeves up his forearms. He’s nervous, exhausted, alight, warm—

“You alright, man?” Shane whispers to him, leaning in close, enough that Ryan is swamped by his cologne; it’s not his usual--this one is spicy, rich, and all Ryan wants to do is shove his face into Shane’s chest and just _breathe_. Rather than embarrass himself, he breathes like a normal human instead of inhaling the scent to tattoo it onto his lungs. 

“Yeah. I think—” Ryan shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Shane gives him a pointed look, one he knows well enough to hear Shane’s disbelief ringing through his ears. 

“You don’t look fine,” Andrew says across the table, but his eyes tell Ryan that he knows it’s not because he might be sick, but because Shane’s recklessly close and Ryan can’t handle it. 

“No, I am,” Ryan argues. “It’s fine. I just zoned out for a sec.” Ryan fiddles with his napkin, just to give his hands something to do. 

It’s subtle, the touch of Shane’s knee against his own. And he hates how it makes him want to crawl out of his skin but notably subdues the over emotional state he’s constantly living in these days. He lives in this space, somewhere between tranquil and cataclysmic, with Shane tossing him either way at any given moment.

When they’re served their dishes, they make comments, praise, eating with delight. It’s really good, Ryan thinks, and he’s honestly enjoying the way the night has played out, despite his wayward emotions.

Except at some point, things take a wild detour.

“Fucking taste this,” Andrew says, picking up a spoonful of his dish and all but shoving it into Steven’s mouth. And Steven hums as they look at each other, watching the way Andrew withdraws his spoon from Steven’s mouth much too slowly. Ryan will pretend what he just saw wasn’t _electrifying_. 

“Oh—oh that’s _so_ good,” Steven says, licking his lips. And it’s a little like maybe Ryan and Shane just shouldn’t be around, like that should’ve been a private moment, until Steven, with his stupid gleaming eyes, pins Ryan down with the heaviness of his suggestive gaze. 

“Why don’t you let Shane taste, huh?” Steven prompts.

Ryan nearly drops the glass he’s drinking from. But when he looks at Shane, he’s inviting, like he wants to. And Ryan doesn’t mind, not really, so he sets his wine down to pick up his spoon. He dips it into his bowl, scooping noodles and broth and veggies. He cups his hand under the spoon, not minding the droplets that splash hot over his palm. 

Back straight, he turns to Shane, reaching towards his mouth. Shane meets him halfway, and Ryan feels like it’s too quiet, a little like he can hear his own breathing when Shane accepts Ryan’s spoon, lips swiping over metal, and—it’s like slow motion; the wrap of Shane’s mouth over silverware, the way his eyes look back at Ryan, so dark Ryan is lost in it, shrouded by shadows. There’s a heat there, in Shane’s eyes that lights the match low in Ryan’s stomach.

“That’s very good,” Shane says, still looking Ryan. Ryan realizes his heart is pounding, but it’s far away, like he’s dissociated from his body. 

“Yeah?” Ryan asks. He sets his hands on the table, but the motion is from memory, because he’s still looking back into Shane’s eyes, brown irises like wildfire. 

“Yeah,” Shane says. 

“Uh?”

Ryan looks at Steven then Andrew. Then the camera. 

“Date night,” Ryan says, laughing even though he feels the nerves in the pit of his stomach, “am I right?”

The three of them laugh and Ryan feels lighter, but he’s still simmering, like he’s drowning in a firelit ocean. 

“Do we keep that?” Andrew asks; he’s looking deliberately at Ryan, but he glances at Shane every so often. They could cut it, but at this point, it really isn’t going to make a difference. Whether his heart eyes are deliberate or not, the comments section of this video will be a catastrophe he’ll throw himself into headfirst.

“What’s wrong with it?” Shane asks. The noise of disbelief Steven emits makes Ryan wanna climb over the table and shut him up. 

“Nothing,” Ryan says. “It’s good, you can keep the bit.”

Andrew’s eyebrows do the same as Steven’s; fly so far up they’re near his hairline. 

“It’s date night!” Ryan says. “It’s a fun bit. Think of the views,” he emphasizes, looking at Andrew. Andrew sighs. 

“You know a final edit can’t be taken down, right?” Andrew says. “You can’t just _change_ your mind.”

“Am I missing something?” Shane says, and Ryan looks at him, knowing Andrew and Steven are, too.

“No,” Ryan mumbles. “They’re just—’cause I was feeding you. You know, the comments,” he explains. 

“Oh,” Shane says. he doesn’t offer anything else, looking between Andrew and Steven, and then finally at Ryan. And because Ryan just can’t take it, he looks away, down at his plate which he’s not eaten much from. 

“Anyway,” Steven says. “Let’s wrap it up, so Adam can eat his bit.” 

Ryan looks behind him and he watches Annie pull on Adam’s sweatshirt, even though it’s a billion degrees outside—and Ryan _feels_ that, understands the act, because he, too, would burn alive just to wear Shane’s jacket if it meant being surrounded by that dumb smell he’s fallen in love with.

But it’s not like Ryan can pull a _God, it's cold in here, right?_ because Shane will just _Damn,_ _Jackie_ , _I_ _can’t_ _control_ _the weather_ him, shutting him down, but he does it anyway, just shivers beside Shane. 

“It’s a little cold in here,” Ryan says, voice even, despite the fact that he can feel his heart lurch into his throat. 

And because Shane is Shane, because he’s hellbent, it seems, on ruining Ryan’s peace of mind, he eases himself into the moment.

“Here, man,” he says, taking his jacket from where it’s draped over the back of his chair. He moves, as Ryan sits frozen in his seat, and sets the jacket over Ryan’s shoulders, hands heavy, lingering for a touch too long.

Ryan pretends he isn’t about to combust, like he isn’t vibrating with too many emotions to name. Well, he can name them, but he won’t, just for the sake of _sanity_. 

“Thanks,” Ryan says, looking down at his bowl of food again, appetite vanished, but he feels extraordinarily warm, surrounded by the smell of Shane’s spicy, earthy cologne. He resists the urge to take a deep, satisfying breath.

“It’ll be a miracle if we can scrape together a video that doesn’t scream sexual tension,” Steven says, just on the verge of laughter; his tone is _teasing_. 

Shane practically howls his laugh and Ryan feels scrutinized; he doesn’t meet Steven’s eyes, but he can feel them on him, like lasers burning through his flesh. 

“Let’s just—” Andrew starts, pausing for a few seconds before saying, “Ryan, what’s your ideal date?”

Ryan chuckles, feeling like finally this was something he could talk about. He rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ courtside at a Lakers game, hella beer, Lakers winning by this much.” Ryan holds his pointer and index finger close together. 

The table laughs, and he can see Annie snickering behind Adam, shaking her head. She has Adam’s sweatshirt sleeves drawn over her hands, settled on her lap. 

“Of _course_ ,” Steven says, laughing. “Shane?” he prompts. 

There’s a pause, just a second, and Ryan looks over at Shane. Shane’s addressing Steven with a calmness Ryan envies.

“I think something like this,” he says, emotions void from the handsome features of his face. “Good food and atmosphere. Good company with conversation that makes the night last longer than anticipated.”

Ryan feels immediately bad for his overly honest answer. Andrew gives Ryan a pointed look.

:::

For all intents and purposes, Ryan doesn’t know what he’s fucking doing. He is, though, certain of the facts:

  1. He’s hopelessly, stupidly, incredibly in love with Shane
  2. Shane’s his best friend
  3. Shane might like him back



So, the last one wasn’t really a fact—just an idea. One might call it a _theory_. Ryan is constantly repeating the last few nights over and over again in his mind, replaying the memories. The way Shane had held him in the wine bar, caring so effortlessly for him when Ryan was a little out of his mind; standing ridiculously close when he taught Shane how to bowl and then later, the vending machine almost-kiss; Shane accidentally calling him babe; the _entirety_ of last night.

Ryan’s working steadily, organizing sources so he can begin writing his script, Shane in the back of his mind. He’s settled there, Ryan realizes. Has just carved a space, without meaning to, in Ryan’s brain. And Ryan’s okay with that. He’s made some peace with it; it’s a little like being stalled at the very top of a rollercoaster, just suspended in the air with his heart beating so fast, but not quite catapulting into the barricade of his emotions. He’s just sat up top, looking down at the landscape of how he feels. And it’s not ideal; it’ll drive Ryan mad eventually, until something happens, or he gets over it, which doesn’t seem likely. Ryan’s so head over heels—

He glances towards the doorway where Shane is talking with someone— _Kelsey_ —and Ryan just lets himself have the moment, just watches the way Shane talks, moving his hands, laughing, where his eyes crinkle at the sides. Ryan can’t imagine ever being over watching that and feeling this, the gentle fondness at seeing Shane in his element, standing tall, always leaning forward just a little when he stands near someone, like he tries to make himself smaller to level himself with people. 

“Heart-eyes on eleven today, huh?”

Ryan turns his head so fast to face Steven, who’s standing just to his side, wearing basketball shorts and holding a ball against his hip. 

“What?” Ryan says dumbly, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Come play for a bit. Get some air,” Steven says. 

And because Shane looks back towards Ryan at that moment, offering a smile that makes Ryan’s lungs melt—he relents. 

“Yeah, okay.” Ryan minimizes his windows and stands from his desk. 

:::

The Los Angeles heat is unforgiving. Ryan is sweating through his t-shirt, running around the court as he chases Steven to steal the ball. It’s a shitty game; Steven’s good to play with because he loves the sport as much as Ryan does.

When Steven sinks the ball again, Ryan realizes he’s losing by too many points to maintain his dignity. In his defense, he’s got a lot on his mind, a lot he’s been thinking about—namely, this situation Steven (only by association since it was Andrew that asked) has put him in.

Ryan does eventually get the ball back, and he’s laughing, feeling that strong sense of confidence when he shoots, and the balls sinks into the basket.

“Fuck yeah,” he mutters, and Steven laughs, shaking his head.

“That’s not going to save you,” he says. Ryan skips backwards, dribbling the ball, and somehow— _somehow_ , Steven weasels it away. Shoots and scores.

“Damn it.”

“You suck,” Steven says, so matter of fact Ryan can feel it in his bones.

“I’m just—my Wildcats energy is not here today,” Ryan jokes.

“Gotta get your head in the game, bro,” Steven teases. The game is deliberately paused, but Steven tosses the ball to Ryan, which he catches effortlessly.

Ryan sighs. “I’m just distracted.” When Ryan shoots his three-point shot, he misses the basket. 

“Do you…want to talk about it?” Steven asks, catching the ball. When he shoots, he makes it and Ryan rolls his eyes. It’s just not his day.

“Not really.”

They play some more, Ryan’s rhythm off; it’s not much of a game for Steven. But Ryan tries, missing baskets—he ends up more frustrated than he’d like for a quick lunchtime game.

“Alright, I’m calling it,” Steven says as he catches the ball from yet another missed shot. “Cause of death: nailed by Lim.”

Despite the way he’s feeling, Ryan laughs. “That was fucking pathetic.”

“Your words,” Steven says, wholeheartedly agreeing. He dribbles the ball, but Ryan steals it, keeping his hands busy. They’re quiet, just the sound of rubber on pavement, the sun hot on the back of his neck.

“So, do you like him?” Steven asks. He stands off to Ryan’s side, hands on his hips, white shirt soaked through with sweat. Ryan ignores him, but at the same time he levels with himself. He’s not admitted it out loud to anyone, but it must be incredibly obvious—Curly telling him he has the New Girlfriend look, Andrew’s incredibly piercing looks, and now Steven outright asking—what’s Ryan got to lose confiding in someone?

“I…” Ryan can’t make himself say it, though. There’s something about keeping it to himself that makes it less real. That makes him feel less pitiful about it.

They’re quiet; no ball being dribbled or sneakers scraping across the pavement. It’s just the two of them standing, Steven watching him, Ryan trying to hide inside himself.

“It just feels a little stupid, catching feelings for your best friend,” Ryan mumbles. He doesn’t bother picking up the ball. Just turns to Steven. “I don’t even know.” 

“Happens, literally, all the time,” Steven coaxes. “They even make movies and songs about it.”

Ryan sighs and looks down at his feet. “I don’t—I wish I didn’t feel like this.”

When Steven steps closer, just enough to reach out and touch Ryan’s shoulder, Ryan doesn’t shy away. “Tell me about it. Just—let it out.” 

And Ryan does. Spanning from well before the “first” first date at the wine bar, because somewhere between haunted houses and gruesome murders, somewhere between late work nights and early call-times, somewhere between innocent lunches and drinks at the bar, _somewhere_ in the middle, Ryan caught feelings and hasn’t been able to shake them off. 

They’re sitting at some picnic tables just off to the side of the basketball court; the sun is warm on his skin, but he feels hot from inside out. Ryan shuffles the basketball between his palms, staring down at it as he just spills the abundance of emotions he’s been harboring for so long. 

“It’s just a lot,” Ryan muses. “And I can’t really pinpoint when it started. Couldn’t tell you. But there was one day where I just looked at him and I just—”

Steven raises his eyebrows, pleading for Ryan to continue.

“I just…realized.”

“Realized what?” Steven asks.

“That when we talk, I don’t want it to stop. And it’s—a lot for me. Because, _women_ ,” Ryan mutters. “Because my whole life, it’s never been a _guy_.”

“Does it matter?” Steven asks. “In the grand scheme of things, does it really matter who it is?”

“No,” Ryan relents. “I guess it doesn’t.” Ryan inhales, breathing through his nose. He appreciates that Steven listens, actually _listens_. And Ryan feels so much better when he tells Steven all of what he feels. “I just like him. There’s just—he’s just—we’re around each other all the time, and I worked my way through the proximity theory, because you know Shane and his vacations—I miss him when he’s gone, right? And it feels stupid, God, but here we are.” Ryan shakes his head. 

“You ever think about talking to him?” Steven asks. “I don’t think this is a one-way street.” 

“And risk…everything?” Ryan says, looking up at Steven. The emotions on Steven’s face soften his features. “It’s more than just me and Shane. I would rather stay friends with him and eventually get over this feeling than ruin what we have. I can live with the what if. What ifs are safe.”

“So, that’s it? You’re just gonna sit in your little safe house instead of—I don’t know—finding out if it’s something good? Something… _Worth It_?” 

Ryan’s own laughter startles him, and he both wants to throw the basketball at Steven and hug him. “I hate you.” 

“Listen, man,” Steven says, chuckling. “Just talk with him. Shane doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to just run away because you like him. Even if he doesn’t feel like that, I highly doubt he’d just tell you to pound sand. He cares about you. That much is apparent. He walks into dilapidated, possibly demon-infested houses and buildings, because you ask him to. Normal people don’t do that.”

Ryan smiles. “It’s a _job_.”

Steven shrugs. “He does it all the same. I’ve seen the videos, man. I watch your shit. You crack stupid jokes and he _laughs_ like you’re funny.”

“Fuck you,” Ryan mumbles. “I’m hilarious.”

“Only you think so.” Steven pauses. “And Shane. He thinks so, for whatever reason. Just say something.” 

“Yeah, but—it’ll make it awkward. I’ll end up being his coworker with this dumb crush and things won’t be the same.” 

“You don’t know that. We still have one more date tonight, and they’ve been going really well so far. Just talk to him.”

Ryan sighs, but he doesn’t necessarily concede. 

It must be minutes that Steven watches Ryan in silence because then he says:

“I saw you guys.” 

Ryan’s eyes snap up to meet Steven’s, heart catapulting into overdrive. “What do you mean?”

“In the bowling alley. When you guys were at the vending machines. I saw you—I mean, I didn’t mean to stand there like a creep or anything, but I just kinda watched—just for a few seconds, when Shane almost kissed you. At least, that’s definitely what it looked like.” 

Breath punched from his lungs, Ryan feels too much all at once to psychoanalyze each of his emotions. Of course, he’s upset because Steven _watched_ them, and interrupted them anyway. There’s a horrid ache of longing stuck thick in his chest at losing the chance. Because Steven _saw_ them, and is now sitting across from him, putting stock into his wild emotions. Because they almost kissed and it’s starting to feel like everything he has with Shane is nothing more than an almost, on the cusp of maybe, just bordering the line of _quite possibly_. He feels helpless, hopeless, a little like the world is standing between him and the one thing he wants the most.

“First off, you’re a dick,” Ryan says, sighing. “I didn’t think you saw anything.” 

His heart is racing in his chest and he wonders how he hasn’t flatlined yet. 

“We had to get back to the video, _hello_. And—and if I’d let it happen, who knows how long you guys would have stood there, just sucking face? We have content to create.” 

Ryan is so far away from satisfied with his explanation. The only thing he really wants to do is throw the basketball he’s clutching right at Steven’s face. He doesn’t know how Steven can just sit there, _teasing_ him when he just word-vomited his school girl feelings all over the picnic table. Ryan rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Knowing what I know, and seeing what I’ve seen,” Steven says, “just talk to him. I can’t imagine it going any way but the way you want it to.” 

Ryan stands up, too frustrated to do anything but walk away. 

And because their lunchtime is basically over, they head back to work, mostly silent on their walk, and when they get back to the building Ryan changes back into his t-shirt and jeans. Shane’s sitting at his desk, writing in a notebook. Ryan sits at his own desk, wiggling his mouse to wake his monitor. 

Ryan spares a glance over at Shane and Shane returns it, eyes bright despite the apparent exhaustion; Ryan smiles, feeling a little at ease with Shane. He realizes he’s lovesick and pathetic, but that’s just how the world seems to turn these days. 

“I’m kind of excited for tonight,” Shane says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looks tired with sleepy eyes and his hair is a mess, like he’s ran his fingers through it too many times. But it works, Ryan’s heart slipping into that too-quick thumping he’s starting to get used to when he thinks about reaching for him, just to run his fingers through Shane’s hair himself. 

“Yeah, me too,” Ryan says instead. 

And maybe Steven is right—maybe it is a two-way street. Shane’s smile is soft, and Ryan just allows himself to dissolve into it the warm feeling that’s become second nature.

_I’m sorry for being a dick._

Ryan figures he can at least extend an olive branch by texting the one person who’d heard him out, despite the sour end of their conversation. Steven’s response is immediate.

_I deserved it. But only a little. Relax, dude._

_I’m like 94% positive he is probably also into you._

Ryan balks at his screen. 

_Probably???_

_With that data, there’s a 6% chance he isn’t._

He can see that Steven’s read the message but doesn’t take the time to respond. So, he shoves his phone into his pocket after glancing over at Shane, who’s already back to work, and does the very same, hanging onto Shane’s admission of excitement close to his chest.

When Ryan’s phone buzzes, he pulls it out and sees Steven’s finally texted him back.

_It’s more like 99% but I didn’t want to give you a big head._

And _that_ he can work with. Six percent was too much of an error margin to keep his cool.

:::

So, Ryan is just going to do it properly. When Shane texts him, _hey, pick me up?_ , Ryan responds with _7:30 sharp, big guy_.

And he takes care with getting dressed. He showers, does his hair, breaks out the iron to make sure his dress shirt is free of wrinkles. 

He wears a tie, black suit, white button up; he combs his hair back neat, shaping the scruff instead of shaving it. Rather than choose his contacts, he picks up the black frame glasses he wears only when he’s too tired to fuck around with the tiny lenses, but they fit here. He appraises himself in the mirror. He looks good; he wonders if Shane will think so, too. 

In the car, he plays music and sings along; he’s buzzing, but it’s good—he’s nervous, anxious, but it’s _good_ , tasting like exhilaration. He’s a few minutes early, pulling up to Shane’s building. He gets out and leans against the passenger door, texting Shane that he’s downstairs. 

And when Shane comes out, Ryan bites down on his bottom lip. He looks great, _incredible_ even; where Ryan is muted, traditional, Shane is vibrant, brilliant. He’s wearing deep navy, a pastel blue tie over a red floral shirt, those clear frames Ryan appreciates wholeheartedly. Shane’s smile is adoring, gentle as he walks towards Ryan. 

“You look good, man,” Shane says, reaching out to tug against Ryan’s tie; Shane’s knuckles brush low against his stomach. Even with all the butterflies, Ryan manages to grin. 

“You too,” he says, and Shane drops his hold on the tie, fingers smoothing over his own. “Ready?” 

Shane nods and Ryan, because he’s trying to do things right, opens the passenger door of his car for him. 

“And who says chivalry is dead?” Shane teases as Ryan rounds the front of the car to the driver’s side. Ryan knows he flushes, but he just shrugs, eyeing Shane over the top of the car. 

“It’s date night, man.” 

Shane’s grin is—well—like it always is; like lightning striking Ryan right in the chest. 

There’s palpable air in the car and they’re mostly quiet, the radio playing on low. Ryan wants to say something, but he doesn’t, so he lets himself suffocate in the car as they head to the steakhouse. 

:::

The chivalry doesn’t die after that. Ryan makes sure to get the door for Shane when they walk in, even goes as far as to pull out Shane’s chair before sitting in his own. 

“You gonna order for me, too?” Shane says, eyes alight with laughter, his smile knowing. 

“I mean, if you’re into that,” Ryan replies, eyes flickering down at Shane’s lips just before catching Shane’s eyes. Shane’s eyebrows fly up, and the eye contact is a lot for Ryan, but he’s determined. And because Ryan really wants it to be true, he thinks Shane is just as determined as he is. 

Andrew sits across from Shane, and Ryan feels good with Steven in front of him, like a security blanket of sorts, something that makes him settle when Shane’s sat next to him, rattling him to the core. They’re both just as dressed up, jackets and ties, looking clean and sharp. Steven eyes him, and Ryan nods his head like he’s confirming Steven’s thoughts. He’s going for it.

They film, comment, and it feels good, easy. 

Their hands brush at some point, lighting Ryan on fire; but this time, it’s muted, more pilot light than wildfire, just a glorious warmth that keeps Ryan present during the conversation. He jokes, he teases, collects a multitude of moments that substantiate his theory that, yes, maybe Shane does feel like he does. Maybe he’s not as alone in this as he’s felt he’s been. 

Shane and Ryan sit close enough that when Shane laughs at something, a joke that Andrew and Steven tag-team, he puts his hand on the back of Ryan’s arm, just above his elbow, like he has to hold onto Ryan. And it’s probably good that he does, because Ryan feels like he could fall out of his chair. 

It’s just like when they’re on location, Ryan thinks.

It’s just like when they’re in the middle of some crazy place Ryan’s dragged them to and he’s a little scared out of his mind and it’s this touch right here, stabilizing, kind, like Shane’s only ever reminding him that he’s right there.

Something inside of Ryan just takes over. Not really fearless, but he’s fine. Okay if something happens, but a little okay if it doesn’t, because at the bottom of this, at the very root of his emotions, he understands that Shane’s got his six, is right by his side, a steady place for Ryan to fall into. Ryan can’t help but look over at Shane, up where he’s still laughing; he’s missed the joke, but it doesn’t matter. 

He sees the youth in Shane’s features, is reminded again of years ago when they met. Life could have gone a million different ways, but they’re here, with each other, with Andrew and Steven, and it feels like a little more than just internet content. 

It’s a weird feeling, like he’s being suspended, time-paused, where he can just steal this moment for himself. He doesn’t care about the cameras, about their friends, about the people in the restaurant. He _doesn’t_ —right there, in that fraction of a moment, where Ryan is just hopelessly in love, he feels, wildly, like everything is going to be alright. 

So, Ryan smiles, and turns back to his food and continues eating, and notices, hyperaware, that Shane doesn’t take his hand away for quite some time. 

:::

In the car, Ryan fiddles with the music before driving, because he’s stalling. Because it felt so good to sit next to Shane and eat food that was pricier than it needed to be, watch Shane talk to Steven and Andrew with stained lips and cheeks flushed, and—and he’s stalling because he doesn’t want the night to end. 

(For the end of the video series, they picked the restaurant in K-Town, unanimously between the four of them. Something about feeding the person you’re dating just really does it, apparently.

Ryan wanted to pick the bowling alley for many, many obvious reasons, but none he could really say straight to the camera.)

Shane takes his hand, so the radio just plays whatever station it’s on. Shane just turns it off. 

“Hey—uh, I don’t really want to go home yet,” Shane says. 

“You could come in and hang out,” Ryan offers, not really sure what Shane means. “Or I could take you somewhere else?” 

Ryan is wholly aware that Shane’s still holding his hand, and he breathes in deep when Shane says, “Let’s go to the beach. I don’t want to go home yet.”

With no conclusive definition of Shane’s words, Ryan feels frazzled, his thoughts puddled. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but Ryan’s nodding. He—unfortunately—has to untangle his hand from Shane’s to shift the gear, and they don’t hold hands after; Ryan just leaves his hand on the gear shift and falls into easy conversation with Shane. 

They’re close enough to the beach that the drive isn’t far; he knows a sick little spot for ice cream, with crazy, experimental flavors like sour cream and lavender-rose. Ryan usually just sticks with vanilla and chocolate, because he _doesn’t_ hate himself. 

When they get out of the car, Ryan looks between the two of them. “We’re overdressed for ice cream,” he says, and Shane looks at him, eyes so fond Ryan almost can’t hold the eye contact. 

“No, we aren’t,” Shane says, voice even and smooth, eyes clear behind his glasses. “We’re still on our date.” 

Ryan quirks an eyebrow, adjusting his own frames. “Oh, is that what we’re doing?” 

Shane shrugs his shoulders, and Ryan’s aware there aren’t any cameras anywhere, it’s just the two of them. There’s no need to call this a date. But Ryan holds that close to his chest, because the magic of the night hasn’t worn off. He’s still Cinderella, hanging out with Prince Charming on the dance floor. 

“I’m just—I’m having a good time,” Shane says, like that’s all he means, but Ryan notices the way his eyes flicker, with light so bright from the streetlamps. 

“Hey,” Ryan says. “I’m not here to kill your vibe.”

“Good.” Shane sets his hand on the small of Ryan’s back and Ryan starts walking, Shane following close behind him. 

Heat gathers, even though his jacket, underneath Shane’s hand. 

:::

The line for ice cream is long; it’s Friday night and judging by the amount of people holding hands, it was date night for half of LA.

Ryan and Shane don’t say much as they look up at the menu. Shane nudges him with an elbow at one point, snickering. 

“Who the fuck wants to eat basil ice cream?” Shane says, shaking his head. 

“There’s a market for everything,” Ryan says, looking up, just to find Shane’s already looking at him. The moment is charged; if Ryan reached out to touch Shane, surely, he’d be shocked to high heaven. 

They reach the counter, and the clerk asks them for their orders; Shane’s still deciding, but Ryan goes ahead and orders strawberry, just to switch things up. Shane’s hand closes around the back of Ryan’s arm, just above his elbow.

“I will also do strawberry,” Shane says, and Ryan feels Shane’s hand slide down his forearm, lingering against his palm before pulling away. 

Ryan fumbles for the cash in his pocket to pay for the ice cream, and they receive their cones. They walk down to the beach, brushing shoulders; Ryan holds his cone in his left hand on the off-chance Shane might want to hold his hand. He doesn’t reach out, because he’s nervous, because what if he read this wrong? Because what if Shane just wanted to hang out? Ryan knows he gets inside himself about things, unintentionally analyzing the situation, and he doesn’t mean to, but he doesn’t know what they’re doing, what it _means_ , if it means anything at all.

It’s Friday night, the moon is full, hanging low above their heads like Ryan can just reach out and touch it. They’re still on the sidewalk, finishing the last of their ice creams. 

“Wanna walk on the beach?” Shane asks.

“Romantic,” Ryan murmurs. 

Shane shrugs out of his suit jacket, holding it over his forearm. “Gimme yours,” Shane says, and Ryan takes off his jacket, and Shane holds it, draping it over his own. “Now give me your hand.” 

Shane’s hand is held out, like Ryan could give him a low five, laugh awkwardly, and let the moment pass, but instead, Ryan studies Shane’s hand; he’s got sturdy hands, long fingers. Ryan sets his palm against Shane’s and their fingers clasp. When Ryan looks up to meet Shane’s eyes, Shane’s looking at their hands, bits of surprise etched into the features of his face. Ryan feels comfort, knowing this is bewildering to the both of them, that they’re both caught incredibly off guard at how easy this is. 

They hold hands as they walk on the beach, and—it’s clogging Ryan’s arteries; it’s all so much, too sweet, this little moment. 

Shane drops their jackets in the sand with care, and then he lets go of Ryan’s hand. Ryan flexes his fingers, looking out to the ocean. The waves crash against the shore, the water glows underneath the moon’s light and Ryan’s heart is pounding in his chest, and he’s standing next to Shane and—

Things are clicking into place, sliding like puzzle pieces, shifting gears; it’s just easy, so he lets it happen. 

They take off their shoes and socks, and because Ryan doesn’t want to ruin his pants, he rolls up the hem at the ankles. 

“Don’t push me in, okay?” he says to Shane, but Shane’s got a devilish smirk on full play, grinning at him in a way that makes Ryan’s stomach swoop, ears rushing with the sound of his heartbeat.

“I wasn’t planning on it, but you got me thinking things, man,” Shane says, and Ryan laughs, more than he needs to, but looking at Shane—it’s just so easy.

“But don’t,” Ryan says, grinning wildly. “I’ll never forgive you.”

“Oh no, how will I live?” Shane says, but his eyes are soft, and Ryan’s heart is relentless, and he knows this feeling, that moment, the flip of a switch, and he’s just—infatuated? Enamored? It’s been years; he can use those sweet five-dollar words to describe the way he feels; incendiary, like he’s on fire and all he does is move closer to the heat. 

“You’ll figure it out, big guy,” Ryan says, voice soft. “Come on, let’s go.”

And like it’s second nature, because they’re _children_ , Shane says, “Race you!” taking off, running, sand flying in bursts behind him and Ryan takes off after him towards the shore, but Shane beats him and there’s laughter as they collide into each other, water splashing at their ankles, and it’s just—Ryan feels so full in a way he’s never felt before. All his anxiety about this; it’s wiped away because Shane looks at him, so gently, and Ryan just steps in close. He feels like he can’t breathe, but in a good way, like when they were on the roller coaster at Knott’s and his stomach was twisting and he was screaming, but—it was so _fun_. 

This is like that. Scary, but horribly incredible, terrifyingly delightful. They’re friends, but it’s more, like this is just the next step. Shane’s close; he reaches out to touch his fingers to Ryan’s tie. The moment is intimate, an echo of before. But because sometimes Ryan makes fascinatingly despicable decisions, he grins and Shane’s features warp into confusion for all of two seconds before Ryan shoves his hands against Shane’s chest. Shane topples backwards, reaching out to grapple for Ryan’s hands, tugging against his wrists which means Ryan’s going down with him. They fall in a heap against the wet sand.

Their legs tangle; the ocean tickles toes and calves and knees. One of Ryan’s hands falls into the sand, the other laying open against Shane’s chest; he can feel Shane’s heart beating; it’s a wild rhythm. Ryan wonders if it’s because of the fall, or if it’s because of their proximity, because they’re so close they could just tip into a kiss without much effort at all. 

Somehow, Shane’s hands end up settled hot against his waist. 

Ryan just looks; he’s been doing that a lot lately, but he can’t help himself. The moon lends him the light he needs to see Shane, a white ring around Shane’s pupils behind his clear-framed glasses, blown incredibly wide. His breathing is even despite his heart, and he looks—devastatingly beautiful. Ryan doesn’t know any other words to describe him, the way Shane looks at him with his expressive eyes, his lips just inches away from Ryan’s. They stay in this extended moment, haloed by the moonlight, Shane’s eyes glimmering, and Ryan is just—he’s so gone for it, for the way Shane is just gazing at him. 

“Hey,” Shane breathes, and the sound of his voice is almost engulfed by the ocean with the way the waves crash against the shore, against their legs. He’s soaked, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing does, really, not with Shane’s eyes on him like this. 

“Hi,” Ryan whispers back, licking his lips. 

“ _Ryan_ ,” Shane says, his voice awed, like he can’t _believe_. Ryan comes back into himself, just enough to feel the press of Shane’s hands follow the line of his waist to lay heavy against his hips, the up, pressing against his back; their hips are flush, chests pressed together and— “You should kiss me,” Shane whispers.

“Yeah?” Ryan says, leaning in just enough so they’re just on the cusp of almost. 

“Yeah. Come on,” he says, and Shane’s got a hand on the curve of his neck, thumb against the corner of his jaw and Ryan’s heart is trying valiantly to make an escape. 

There’s so much at risk with this; uncalculated, unmeasured, but because it’s all he’s wanted to do for longer than forever, Ryan lets his eyes fall closed, touching his lips to Shane’s.

Their glasses clink together, and they laugh. They laugh because it’s easy, because of _course_ , a silly obstacle would have Ryan shaking with laughter on top of Shane’s body. Smirking, Shane reaches his hands to take Ryan’s glasses off, and then he does the same with his own. Shane doesn’t blur; he’s perfect still, even with Ryan’s horrible eyesight.

Summer rings true; he’s warm in his button up, but on top of Shane’s body, he feels like he’s burning.

“Take two,” Shane says, fingers curled around the back of Ryan’s neck and he inhales, leaning in to meet somewhere in the middle.

It’s good, simmering in his veins as their mouths press and pull, so, so gentle, until Shane’s fingers curl in his hair. It’s slow, this kiss, but it’s more than Ryan could’ve imagined. Shane’s lips taste like strawberries, chapped and soft, his tongue gentle, inviting; Ryan opens up to all of it, the way Shane’s hands hold him, how their hips align, the way Ryan just allows himself to be ruined by the touch of Shane’s mouth. It’s really good, is the thing. The kind of kiss Ryan longs for, the kind of kiss he thought Shane would give him, without trepidation, without fear; it’s the two of them, just like it’s always been. Ryan can taste the vulnerability, the way Shane says with the heat of his mouth, _don’t go_. And Ryan responds, with a flick of his tongue, _I’m right here_. 

When they break, it’s saccharine sweet; their noses nuzzle and Ryan keeps his eyes closed, like opening them will break the moment, like it’ll all fade and they’ll have to go back to normal. His breath comes in short spurts, and he leans in again, to touch his lips against Shane’s because now that he knows what that feels like, he’s ruined for it. 

“Come home with me,” Shane murmurs, his lips warm, tasting like ice cream and promises. 

“Okay,” Ryan says, because he doesn’t know what that means, what they’ll find there, but he’s willing to find out. 

It’s a while before they get up off the sand, too tied into each other. They’re dripping with saltwater, holding hands again, like it’s what they do. 

Collecting their things, they walk barefoot back to Ryan’s car, parked in front of the ice cream shop—closed. A glance at the clock on the dashboard in his car tells him it’s just after midnight. 

There’s a calm, an ease Ryan’s so familiar with he feels regretful of disturbing it with words. 

“Do we need to talk?” Ryan says. 

Shane is silent, looking out of the window. Maybe it was just a moment, and it’s passed now. Neither of them have shared confessions. It could be something they could chalk up to a _moment_ , nothing permanent. 

“Do you want to talk?” Shane asks. 

“I...I don’t know,” Ryan whispers. “I just—you invited me over. I just don’t know what that means now. Is there something on the table, or is it—are we gonna pop popcorn and watch a movie and pretend like you didn’t ask me to kiss you?”

“I like you, Ryan.” Shane looks at him with eyes lit by— _nothing_ , Ryan thinks. There isn't any light around them. The overhead lights are off and there isn’t much that filters through the windows. Shane’s eyes are lit by emotions, feelings, his admission. Ryan leans his head back against the headrest, looking up at the headliner, taking a deep breath. 

“You do?” Ryan asks, like he’s confused, but he knows. 

“I don’t know how it happened,” Shane admits, “because you’re fucking insufferable.” 

Ryan laughs, turning his head to look at Shane, and Shane’s smiling, so, so sweet. 

“But you like me,” Ryan whispers, his hand searching for Shane’s over the console. Their fingers slip together, so effortlessly Ryan’s heart skips many, many beats. 

“I do,” Shane whispers back. “I’m inviting you in because—because there’s a lot on the table. It doesn’t—I mean, I don’t know what you want, or what this is, but I’m certain of exactly one thing.” Shane’s voice is soft, like he’s scared of it too, like admitting these things are just as hard for him as Ryan thought they’d be for himself.

“What’s that?” Ryan asks.

“That I like you.” 

“I don’t want to go home,” Ryan says, suddenly understanding why Shane hadn’t wanted to earlier. “I feel like—it’s just—like it’ll break everything.” Like he’ll suddenly be sitting in the mess of a torn apart pumpkin carriage.

Shane reaches and tugs on Ryan’s tie, pulling him close just so they can kiss over the center console, just a few short, sweet moments. All Ryan wants to do is climb into Shane’s lap and kiss him for a long, very long time. 

“It won’t break,” Shane promises against his lips. “I’ve been feeling like this a long time, Ryan. I’ll feel like this tomorrow and the day after, and probably the day after that. If you want, at least.”

“I do want,” Ryan whispers. “I want that so much.” The vulnerability is almost too much, going from harboring all these feelings to admitting these things so Shane can hear—he feels a little like his heart might, honest to God, give out.

“So,” Shane says, clutching his hand, pressing the softest kiss to his palm. “Let’s just go home. It’s just me and you, Ryan. It’s the same as it’s always been. We just like each other out loud now.” 

They share a look for much too long, because Ryan couldn’t argue with that, even if he tried. Their fingers untangle eventually; Ryan starts the car and shifts gears, and then Shane’s fingers find his, like they were meant to. It feels like they were. 

:::

Ryan’s never really had a reason to be in Shane’s bedroom before; it’s a private space he doesn’t really go into. But tonight, he’s dressed in Shane’s clothes after a shower to wash off the saltwater, a sweatshirt and sleep pants much too big for him, lying back against the pillows. He’s waiting for Shane to finish, staring at the ceiling fan spin like it’s going to answer the millions of questions he has. It doesn’t. 

Shane looks cozy, warm, hair damp and standing in all different directions. He’s only wearing a plain white t-shirt and flannel sleep pants—things Ryan has seen Shane wear but there’s something about it _now,_ that drives Ryan a little wild, Shane’s bare feet shuffling over the carpet as he hangs his towel over the end of the bed frame. Ryan watches him crawl into bed, all lanky limbs and tired eyes, but he rests next to Ryan, chests pressed together, his fingers carding through Ryan’s hair.

Ryan feels like he’s been waiting forever for this, where they’re trapped in these tender moments. He wants to scream or cry or pound his fists against the walls because he feels so good. 

“Hello, there, darlin’,” Shane drawls, and Ryan cackles with laughter, shaking his head.

“Kiss me, you fool.” Ryan tucks his fingers in the neckline of Shane’s tee, and even while Shane laughs, he kisses Ryan. 

It’s innocent now, despite the implications of laying together in bed. They kiss slowly, without edge, just an exploratory endeavor, searching into one another.

Shane’s lips are insistent, though, but Ryan thinks that’s just how he kisses, with promises for more, even though this is more than enough. Ryan’s hands find skin, pressing against Shane’s back, underneath cotton. They kiss like there’s time, like there’s nothing to worry about, like this is where they were supposed to be on a Friday night, pushing Saturday morning with soft sighs and wandering fingertips. 

“I like you, too,” Ryan says suddenly, remembering he’d said nothing in the car, nothing to assure Shane that this was—was for the both of them. 

“Yeah?” Shane says, his smile soft, reserved for Ryan here, lying on Shane’s bedsheets. “I hadn’t noticed.” 

Ryan rolls his eyes. “You dick,” Ryan says, but is voice is so fond, there’s no heat behind it ‘cause he’s smiling like he’s out of his mind. “I was just saying.” 

“I know,” Shane says. “I think I knew for a long time, but it was like—I didn’t at the same time.” 

And Ryan knows that feeling, where things are but they aren’t. Like, Ryan’s woken up to Shane wrapped around him dozens of times, but nothing came of it. They’ve been pressed this close hundreds of times, but neither of them tipped the scale. And they’ve looked at each other like this, millions of times, but a million and one times they’ve looked away.

“I know,” Ryan echoes. “I know.” 

“This is good though,” Shane whispers, face close, noses touching, his hand slipping over Ryan’s shoulder, his chest, dragging slow against the tense plane of Ryan’s stomach. “Right?”

“You called me babe,” Ryan whispers. 

“Hmm?” Shane’s fingers slip underneath Ryan’s sweatshirt, curling around his waist. When he opens his eyes, Shane’s looking back. 

“The other day. When you were eating cake. You saw it, and then you said, ‘thanks, babe’. You called me _babe_.” He lets his eyes fall away from Shane’s gaze, down to his neck, the way he’s flushed so pretty. Ryan touches his fingers to the neckline of Shane’s shirt, tracing a collar bone, settling his fingertips to the hollow of Shane’s throat, just to feel the way he swallows. He doesn’t look at Shane, not immediately, but when his sight flickers up; Shane’s smile is unlike anything he’s seen before. It’s gentle, warm, like the touch of his big, sturdy hands against his flesh, carefully destroying Ryan. “ _And_ you almost kissed me—when we were bowling.”

Shane hums. “My feelings were showing. Sometimes I have those.” 

Ryan wheezes. “Alert the media: Shane Madej feels.” 

Shane’s laugh is a breath; it’s his eyes that make Ryan’s heart skip—Ryan wonders if this is what cardiac arrest feels like; his chest is tight, his lungs on fire, feeling like his body might quit on him. 

They’re pressed together on Shane’s bed, in the middle of the night, talking in whispers. Ryan is so incredibly present for this moment, and yet, Shane’s words still take him by surprise.

“I feel a lot of things. Mostly concerning you,” he mumbles. 

“Yeah?” Ryan lets his fingers trip over the column of Shane’s neck, dragging against the bearded line of Shane’s jaw. He shivers.

“Yeah.” 

“I like that.”

“Good,” Shane says, leaning in to press a kiss to Ryan’s lips, and Ryan chases after it when Shane pulls back. “That’s really good.”

“Come back,” Ryan whimpers, his fingers at the back of Shane’s head to tug him closer. “I wanna kiss you some more.” 

“Okay, babe,” Shane says, and their mouths touch again, in this hot press of lips, pulling back just to press in again, and over and over until it’s a lot, so much, until they’re wiggling out of sweatshirts and tees, chests pressed together as their fingers find new flesh to favor.

It gets hot enough between them that Ryan pulls back, breathing harshly against Shane’s mouth, but rather than stop, Shane’s mouth lowers, dragging hot against the column of Ryan’s neck, at the underside of his jaw where his pulse beats wildly. His fingers find purchase along the naked expanse of Shane’s back, keeping him close as Shane undoubtedly sucks a mark into Ryan’s willing flesh. Ryan is dizzy from the feeling, whispering Shane’s name into the emptiness of the bedroom, staring up at the ceiling as he listens to the little groans Shane makes against his skin. They’re much too close; thighs pressed between thighs, Shane rolling his hips down into Ryan’s and Ryan pressing up to meet him —the last thing Ryan wants to do is move this too fast for the sake of letting Shane touch him all over, even though in the foggy haze of lust, with Shane’s weight pinning him down against bed sheets and Ryan pulling him closer, he can’t imagine anything he wants more.

“Wanna take a break?” Shane murmurs, leaning his forehead against Ryan’s.

“We probably should, even though I don’t _really_ want to. I just don’t want to—ruin this,” Ryan confesses, keeping his eyes closed. He can feel Shane’s palm touch his cheek, thumb brushing just underneath his eye. They’re breathing so hard they could just keep going, undress each other and figure out newnesses they weren’t allowed before. But Shane’s weight is gone, and Ryan hates the way he suddenly feels like he can breathe.

“Come here,” Shane whispers, and Ryan lets his eyes open. Shane moves to lay on his back, reaching to shut the light off. And even though Ryan would love to create a home nestled into Shane’s chest, laying against his side, he’d just—rather hold Shane instead.

“No, _you_ come here,” Ryan says, laughing a little. Shane looks at him, like he’s never seen Ryan before. “You’re the little spoon tonight,” he explains, before he turns toward Shane, lying on his side, tugging Shane’s arm where he clasps his fingers around the tender flesh of the inside of his elbow. Shane’s pliant, moves to press his back against Ryan’s chest, reaching to pull blankets over their legs and stomachs. Ryan tucks his arm around Shane’s waist, burying his face into the nape of his neck where that luscious scent he’s so familiar with thrives.

The thing is, Ryan finds, is that he’s comfortable here. He’s still the same person he was, and Shane is undoubtedly no different, and nothing _feels_ any different. He’d been so afraid that something would break, that things would change, but in reality, they just have this as an option now; they’re allowed to be this close, without a question of _is this okay_ , because it is, because it’s welcomed.

Because it’s all Ryan’s ever wanted.

And now he knows, without a single freckle of doubt, that Shane has wanted this, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading! here's my [tumblr](https://businessbabybergara.tumblr.com/)! happy holidays!


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